Harper's hands paused in Emmy's hair. "Can I ask you something? About your job?"
"Sure."
"Are staff ever allowed to... you know. Date clients?"
Emmy's stomach tightened. "God, no. That's like—it's like a doctor dating their patient. Massive ethical violation. Elite Connections has a zero tolerance policy. Immediate termination, career over, reputation destroyed." She shook her head. "Why?"
"No reason." Harper's fingers resumed their work, but something in the air had shifted.
"Your hair is done." Harper stepped back, admiring her work. "Nothing short of a hurricane is going to budge this ponytail. Are you sure you don't want pigtail braids? They're more functional. Plus, studies show braids make men thinkthoughts."
"What kind of thoughts?"
"Thoughts, Emmy.Thoughts." Harper waggled her eyebrows suggestively. "Of the naked variety."
"I'm playing tennis against a potential client, not auditioning for a shampoo commercial."
"Just saying. Options exist."
"You know, I really didn't peg you for the functional sneaker type," Harper gestured to the shoes sitting by Emmy's duffel bag. "Those look serious. Like they havetraction."
"Grant made me get them," Emmy muttered. "He said my platforms were a liability."
Harper's eyebrows rose. "He bought you shoes? Interest-ing."
"Thank you." Emmy turned to face her, ignoring the implication. "For this. For the coffee. For?—”
"Go survive your tennis massacre." Harper's smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "I mean match. Text me after—if you're still alive."
The Commonwealth Club loomed through Emmy's windshield like a final exam.
Georgian columns. Immaculate hedges. A line of luxury cars waiting for valets in matching polo shirts. The parking lot alone looked like it had been landscaped by someone who was an ace with a protractor.
Emmy pulled in behind an Audi and parked her Civic in the visitor section like a good little commoner.
The membership office had emailed her a guest pass that morning, along with instructions to park in the "visitor section”—a subtle banishment from the main lot—and check inat the front desk. She'd read the email three times, looking for hidden tests.
This was Tyce Duke's world. The world she needed to crack if she was going to build Elite Connections' athlete division. The world where people summered as a verb and probably didn't think twice about dropping a thousand dollars on tennis lessons.
Emmy locked her car and walked toward the clubhouse. The replacement tennis dress had arrived at her apartment without a word from Grant, gift-wrapped and perfectly sized, but when it came time to change she'd impulsively reached for workout leggings and a tank top instead.
She was here. She'd gotten a meeting with a Wimbledon quarterfinalist. An NFL All-Pro quarterback had helped her make sure she could hit a ball over the net. She could walk into a country club.
The front desk woman—Clancy, according to her name tag—was polished and professional.
"Emmy Woodhouse? Mr. Duke is expecting you. Court Three." Clancy handed over a laminated pass. "Through the main hall, out the back doors, turn left."
Thick carpets, thicker endowments. The main hall practically whispered. Emmy walked through it like she belonged there.
Court Three was tucked behind a magnificent oak, its leaves just starting to turn gold. Not a single one had been allowed to touch the ground—the groundskeeping staff here probably worked in shifts.
And there, on the far baseline, was Tyce Duke.
He was already warming up, feeding balls from a basket with the lazy efficiency of someone who'd done this ten thousand times. Each swing was fluid, economical, and humiliating by comparison.
Tyce looked up as she approached. "Emmy Woodhouse." He grinned, setting down his racquet to walk toward the net. "You made it."
"You seem surprised."
